


Darker Shades of Magic

by Vyranai



Series: The Tales of Aevella Lavellan [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: All the Solavellan angst, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, Chantry Boom, Dorian has the best t-shirts, F/M, Fluff, Healing, Nurses, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 11:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10099472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vyranai/pseuds/Vyranai
Summary: Nurse Aevella Lavellan finds herself caring for an enigmatic patient called Solas in the aftermath of an explosion. Temporarily without his sight and painfully alone, he and Aevella bond through fleeting touches and their shared love of the arcane.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I am no expert on all things healing. Everything here? Either my own knowledge or from my trusty old friend Google. Bless Google.  
> There is fluff, angst, humor and eventual smut. Main focus and pairing is Solavellan, but you'll also get a decent dose of Fenhawke as well.

“Sweet Maker-!” Dorian exclaimed, hastily turning up the volume on the TV from soft to blaring. The carnage was clear even with the dust hardly settled upon the ruins of the Kirkwall Chantry. The nurses and a few patients huddled around the small blocky TV, watching with various degrees of horror as the news story broke. Aevella had a hand over her mouth, unable to believe the destruction before her. The newscaster urged all civilians to stay away from the blast site over fears that the explosive had been a chemical one. Firefighters braving the blazing debris and thick smoke wore masks to protect themselves, hauling out bloodied survivors in their droves. Only the casualties were not limited to the building itself; upon the detonation, the blast wave had also hit those in the streets. There were fears that anyone in the Chantry at the time had been vaporized almost instantly.

“Shit-!” Hawke swore as her pager went off, a high and reedy beeping sound. “We are the nearest trauma unit. Or at least, the biggest hospital. They'll be bringing the bulk of those injured here.”

Aevella watched the live pictures on the screen flash by; a screaming young man, face half covered in blood; a woman sat upon the ground with her head in her hands; a couple clinging to each other, bodies trembling violently. The early outlook spoke as terrorism. Especially seeing as the Chantry had no electrics or gas mains beneath it. The Chantry had always been very set in its anti-modern ways, instead choosing to keep the flames and the candles. There was nothing _to_ explode by accident inside of a Chantry. If a candle had toppled over onto a curtain, the building would have just burned down instead of exploding.

There was no justifying terrorism. Not at all. It destroyed lives, innocent people and historic buildings in this case. Aevella had hoped and prayed that during her time as a nurse, there would be no large-scale incident in Kirkwall. Clearly her Gods had not been listening. Hopefully, they would catch the monster or monsters responsible for the cataclysm soon. If there was any evidence left in the ashes, of course.

Dorian turned the volume down, face a few shades paler than before. He set the remote aside, many rings glinting upon his fingers in the fluorescent lights. “It's times like these that I'm thankful that I'm only a humble receptionist. I'm sensing double shifts, you lot.”

With a groan, Hawke rubbed at the spot between her eyebrows. Aevella noticed; it was a bad habit of Eryna's whenever she was stressed. There was a permanent red mark situated between her brows now it seemed. “Don't curse me like that, Pavus. I have a date tonight that I do _not_ intend on missing. Again, I might add.”

“And who is it this time?”

“Some priest.” Hawke shrugged a shoulder, leaning against the counter. Aevella could just about see the line of her silver necklace behind the white collar of her scrubs.

With a great splutter, Dorian's eyes widened. “A _priest?_ ” he chortled, smirk spreading across his face like ink on parchment. “Eryna Hawke... and a priest. Well, shave my back and call me an elf!”

Aevella scowled, folding her arms tight across her chest. “Hey, elf here.”

“...tell me you do not have a hairy back, Aevella. I will never be able to look at you with a straight face again if you do.”

“Of course I don't have a hairy back! I'm not some preening Vint.”

Dorian placed a hand over his heart, adopting a hurt look. Hawke raised an eyebrow in silence. “You wound me, Dalish heathen. Look! My heart is bleeding! You have cracked it right down the middle.”

Aevella leaned over the counter and pressed her palm against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath her hand. Dorian's t-shirts were well known throughout the hospital for relating to his most prized possession: his moustache. “I MOUSTACHE YOU A QUESTION” was printed across the navy blue t-shirt today in bloc white capitals, the silhouette of a moustache beneath it in black.

“Seems fine to me. Just a little shrivelled.” Aevella withdrew her hand while Hawke snickered.

In the distance just then, the group around the TV heard sirens. Loud and demanding, growing fainter and fainter the longer they listened. Dorian slid his chair across the floor to his computer, punching a few buttons; the grimace told Aevella all she needed to know before he voiced it aloud. “You lot had better retreat back into the wards, stay out of the way; all available ambulances were just dispatched to the Chantry site. Trauma will be backed up with how many casualties they're likely to bring in.” He shuddered lightly. “Lots of blood, gore and end of the world screaming.”

“Hey, who's screamin'?” came a new, if annoyed voice. Aevella closed her eyes gently as Sera bounded up to them. “Shit!” the elf all but yelled upon seeing the now muted headline splashed across the screen. “We next? They gon' bomb us next? It's a conspiracy of mages, I swear down.”

Aevella held her tongue, all too used to the youth's manners. But Hawke didn't bother to. “Mages are incredibly rare,” she snapped, rounding on Sera. “There's only two in this hospital. And they have proved themselves more than capable of their stations. They go above and beyond the call of duty to help.”

“Yeah, until they go all boomy like the Chantry. They got the right idea, the oldies, making magic fingers sign that paper thingy. The law.”

Hawke swelled up in rage, a muscle jumping in her cheek. Sera had no idea, of course, but Eryna Hawke's family lived and breathed magic. Where her father had been part of the Magi Division of the military before his untimely death four years ago, her younger sister, Bethany, was a healer like her. Though she was stationed in Orlais, not the Free Marches. And Eryna possessed no magic. Something she lamented often.

Aevella placed a hand upon her friend's arm. _I know you want to punch her, but please refrain from doing so,_ she thought desperately. Sera was testing on all their patiences. The sooner she finished her forced voluntary period the better. Whoever had thought her suitable for life on the wards, caring for people from all walks of life, had much to answer for.

With a last glare at the blonde woman, Hawke turned away, announcing that she was going to make the new beds ready for the imminent arrival of the survivors of the blast. “S'up with Birdy?” Sera asked after her departure, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Stick up her arse again?”

Dorian deadpanned. “I haven't the faintest idea. Do you, Ella?”

Aevella gave him a sharp look. _Leave me out of this,_ she tried to communicate with her narrowed eyes. Evidently, it got across as Dorian looked away first.

“Eh, weird. All weird.” Sera shrugged once more. “I'm off. Don't wanna see some half dead folks rolled in.”

 

As soon as she was gone, Aevella left Dorian at his desk, turning into the staff lockers instead of the patient ward. She shut it behind her softly, calling “Hawke? I know you're in here.”

A clatter sounded from the back of the room. Aevella found Hawke sat before her open locker, elbows on her knees and head hanging low. The inside of the metal door was decorated with endless photos; Hawke and her friends and family were the most prominent. Also of her Mabari, Fluffy, who was anything but fluffy with his hint of black fuzz all over his muscular body. Far from being fluffy, he resembled an overlarge gremlin that had ran face-first into a brick wall. Though none dared say that to her face.

Hawke sighed, holding a photo in her hands; she and her siblings, arm-in-arm and laughing with delighted expressions upon their faces. They couldn't have been more than children at the time of it being taken. “I miss their stupid faces, Aevella. I even miss my mother's snooty expression when I told her that I wanted to become a nurse.”

“You'll see them again.” Aevella sat down next to Hawke and wrapped an arm around her, hugging the miserable woman into her embrace. She felt Eryna's predicament very keenly, heart aching to see her brother again. But he was in Ferelden, an ocean between them. And her parents were...

Hawke managed a small smile, resting her cheek against Aevella's shoulder. “I know that I shall, it's just... shitty. Super shitty that I had to get stuck here in Kirkwall while they're all together in Lothering. Well, almost all of them. But at least Beth is on the same continent as Mother and Carver. I have all these friends, but still... I feel lonely, sometimes.”

Aevella clung to her tighter. “We shall be absolutely fine, Hawke.” Though she said it with a smile, she didn't feel it. The words felt... hollow. Brittle almost, as if enough pressure and they would shatter. Being a nurse was hard at the best of times, but when your mood found that little dark hole and decided to set up camp within, it got infinitely worse. Hawke was hovering on the periphery, the canvas sheets starting to unfold and tent pegs spilling out. All she needed now was a hammer to hit it home.

With a soft laugh, Hawke took Aevella's small hand in her own. The elf always smelled like dragonthorn. A dark, almost citrusy scent. Whenever she asked what soap she used, Aevella merely looked confused. Some people were just lucky, Hawke guessed. Or maybe it was an elf thing.

A hand banged against the door. “Ladies! This is not the wards! Out!”

Hawke grimaced, rising slowly to her feet; she shut the door of her locker with a snap, tucking the photo into her back pocket. “Come on, let's do this. Before Cassandra eats us alive. She's had it in for me since the day I arrived in Kirkwall, I swear.”

 

When they emerged, the relative calm of the hospital was gone. Instead, a kind of mayhem replaced it with trolleys being wheeled down towards Intensive Care or the trauma wing. Hawke and Aevella dove into the wards just after a woman with half her face burned and twisted was rushed down the corridor. Inside the ward, there was a veneer of calm. At least, until the first victims started to trickle in.

Aevella busied herself looking after the current patients, walking around with a smile plastered on her face to ask if they wanted another drink, or maybe a snack. Two cups of tea and a coffee later, Aevella settled down next to one of her favourite patients, a celebrated published author named Varric Tethras.

“How's the leg today?” Aevella beamed, checking his pulse when he offered her his upturned wrist.

“Well...” he glanced down over the rim of his golden glasses. “It's still there.”

Aevella giggled, writing down Varric's pulse. It was as steady as he was, at long last. The infection was clearing it seemed. “Be serious, Mr. Tethras.”

“Oh? Have we returned back to formalities now, ey Nurse Stabby?”

“Why do you call me Stabby?” Aevella pouted, setting the clipboard down. “I am a nurse,” she insisted.

Varric patted her arm. “Because I have seen the way you wield a needle. And I am bloody glad that I'm not on the receiving end.”

“Says one who fell off a stepladder made for humans and onto a knife.” Aevella loved talking with the dwarf. He was so... cheerful. Like a sun in the dreary ward, illuminating everything he touched. Varric didn't care for nurse-patient formalities, constantly shooting her down whenever she tried to remain her go-to assistant nurse persona. Usually she wouldn't dream of being so lewd to a patient, but he was the same with everyone. Even the Head Nurse, Cassandra. Who promptly ignored him and made him cackle at her seriousness.

Varric groaned, taking off his glasses and setting them aside on the little cabinet. “I missed my footing and had a little... accident. Dwarven stepladders don't go up so high, what else was I supposed to do? Sing and hope to charm the frame up onto the hook?”

“I think maybe it was a sign,” Aevella offered in an amused tone, unrolling the bandage and checking the area of the wound; the craft knife had gone straight into his calf, somehow avoiding muscle and nicking his tibia instead. She was watching constantly for signs of blood poisoning, or if the wound was starting to weep once more. He wasn't an urgent case, but he also wasn't allowed to go home just yet on Doctor Anders' orders. And to be honest, Aevella was secretly happy that Varric was remaining with them for a little longer. He was the life and soul of the ward.

Varric nodded solemnly. “Yes. That I should just pay someone else to do menial jobs around the house. Much better for ones health.”

Aevella burst out laughing and was still laughing when a new patient was wheeled into the space at the end of the row, directly opposite Varric. Upon glancing around, Hawke was busy with the elderly lady with a pancreatic problem and Sera was predictably nowhere in sight. Probably hanging around the neonatal unit once more, cooing at the babies in their little knitted nug-patterned hats. Somehow, that surprised Aevella more than her absence. She hadn't seemed the type.

Aevella saw that the newcomer was an elf from his long and slender ears, just visible within the bandages. He was tall, even propped up against a trio of fluffy white pillows. Aevella's eyes travelled to his face, taking in the thick white bandage that was placed around his head, covering his eyes. His left cheek was charred very slightly, red from the blast he'd been in, no doubt. When Aevella picked up the clipboard at the foot of his bed and scanned the prognosis, she saw that the man – Solas the name at the top announced – had indeed been in the blast. He suffered abrasions to his chest and back from flying debris, mild burns and ocular trauma. Just what type of damage he'd caused to his eyes they were unsure, planning to reassess that evening or the next day. For now he was to be kept in the ward with his eyes bound just in case the damage was to more than simply his corneas. There was also a small case of smoke inhalation and temporary loss of consciousness.

Solas' ears twitched as Aevella replaced the clipboard in its stand. “Forgive me, but could you inform me as to where I am now? I heard an elevator before.”

Aevella smiled even though the elf couldn't see. “I am Assistant Nurse Aevella Lavellan. You are on the ward now for recovery,” she explained calmly. “Have you been told anything about your injuries?”

He nodded once, flexing his fingers constantly. Aevella's eyes kept following their every frustrated movement; she'd seen it many times in bed bound patients. “Yes. Ocular trauma. Among other things.” He coughed twice, bringing his palm to his mouth. “Excuse me.”

Aevella poured a glass of water from the jug on the stand. “Here- a glass of water.” She took his slim and scarce lined hand in her own and wrapped his fingers around the glass, helping him bring the rim to his lips; Solas took a sip, grip surprisingly tight on the glass. Aevella was slightly worried that he might end up breaking it.

“Thank you,” Solas muttered, allowing her to take the glass from him and place it on the stand next to the jug. “Tell me, because the other nurses held their tongues – do I look... I am not a vain man, Nurse Lavellan, but I simply cannot see for myself.”

Aevella scanned his form once more, taking in every little detail, every burn or mark. He'd gotten off lightly, especially the smooth skin of his head. There was not a blemish upon the crown of his head. “You have a burn on your cheek, but it is merely superficial. It will heal up clear with time and care. As for other injuries that I can see with the naked eye, just some cuts on your hands and arms. Though your chart stated that you have abrasions to your back and chest.”

“A better outcome than I feared, then. Being so close to the Chantry when it exploded... I feared the split second I was enveloped by darkness that death had called my number.”

“Not just yet, Mr. Solas.”

He twisted uncomfortably. “I... Just Solas. Please. No need to make a situation more alien.”

“Very well then, Solas. Is there anything I can get you? Tea maybe?”

“I detest tea. Something to eat would not go amiss. I missed breakfast this morning. A very poor decision, looking back now.”

“Okay, no tea. I'll make a note on your clipboard.”

Solas chuckled at that. It made Aevella smile to hear such a sound coming from a blast victim so soon after the event. He seemed rather level-headed and sensible. Those were rare indeed. “Would you like to call anyone?” she asked a minute later, smoothing down the blanket atop him. “Any family or friends?”

“I... no. Thank you.”

Aevella couldn't place his tone; was it sad? It seemed wistful, almost. As if he wished he could give any other answer but the one he'd offered her.

Varric let out a low whistle opposite; Aevella spied Solas' ears twitch once more in direction of the sharp sound. “Damn, Chuckles, you were in that blast I keep hearing around the hospital?”

“Yes, I was.”

“But you're alive. Take it you weren't too close then?”

“I was opposite the street, drawing the classical spires of the Chantry for my architecture collection. The blast was so... sudden. So harsh and violent. One moment you could see, hear the sounds of the people around you, the next... a roar. A terrible rush that turned into a ringing silence so deep I thought I was lost. It was only when I was pulled from beneath the wreckage of the spire I was drawing, saw the flames and the smoke with my own eyes that I truly grasped what had happened.”

Varric possessed a disturbed expression as he surveyed the elf. “Shit,” he swore under his breath. “You're a lucky son of a bitch. Some of the patients actually heard the explosion in the distance it was that loud. Lady at the end did. I'm shocked you can still hear, being so close to the event.”

“It was a cold afternoon. I am fortunate that I decided to wear a hat today, for I suspect that it offered some protection against the blast seeing as my head is not, ah, feeling like my cheek or hands. Though pain is a relief; the burns have not stripped away my nerves.” Solas clenched his hands tight once more; it felt good, better than simply bottling up the anger brewing within him. “I suspect that my sketchbook is lost to me now. A shame. I had just finished a dozen commissions.”

That got Aevella's attention as she straightened out the pillows behind him. “You are an artist?” she asked, vaguely surprised. She should have guessed, holding that hand; they were the long fingers of an artist, careful and precise.

“A hobby that pays well in certain areas. It's not an occupation that you can live on, merely survive.” Solas sighed tiredly and leaned back against the mountain of pillows.

Aevella gave Varric a pointed look before turning back to the exhausted elf. “I think it's time you rested, Solas. If you need anything, just shout. Or just... wave a hand to get my attention if your throat is too sore to shout.”

“You have my thanks once again, Nurse Lavellan.”

She yanked the curtains shut around him with a loud rasp, then set off to find Solas a ham sandwich or two.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos etc are a writer's best friend.


End file.
